Cet Amour Est Traitre
by DiaryOfAFangirl13
Summary: Takes place after the events of season 3 episode 24, 'The Divine Move'. Original plot ideas. This is my first fic so please comment/review so I can improve my story! All characters owned by MTV. Just had to borrow them for a while!
1. Lydia

1: Lydia.

_A sword._

_A gasp._

_Then; blood._

_Warm, crimson blood, tricking softly from the wound inflicted upon Allison's chest. The Oni's blade had 'been thrust through her so forcefully that it had penetrated her ribcage, then her heart.' Or so the coroner had written on his official report. Of course, Lydia had already known when she felt the impact that Allison was beyond help, unreachable, irreversibly injured. But that fact didn't prevent the overwhelming feelings of guilt she had been experiencing for the past three days from resurfacing, smothering her like a tidal wave. _

_Scott had been there. He had held his first love's hand and told her what he himself wanted to believe; that she would be okay, he'd save her. All the while Lydia screamed Allison's name, screamed and cried and clung to an unconscious Stiles for dear life in that damned cellar. If only she had found a way out, she could have come to Allison's aid, done something._ _**Anything.**_

Lydia sat on the carpeted floor of her bedroom; head slumped against the hard wood of her ebony vanity table. This was _her_ room, and hers alone, yet it felt vacant. _She _felt vacant. As if she was missing a piece of herself. Her soul had been shattered into a thousand pieces. She couldn't look around her room without seeing traces of Allison everywhere. One of her best friend's French books stood on Lydia's nightstand. A purple hairbrush which had been used as a microphone for an impromptu concert in front of Lydia's full-length mirror lay on the floor across the room, thick dark hair entwined between bristles. And hanging on the door of Lydia's wardrobe; Allison's jacket.

Lydia struggled to her feet, using the vanity as a support. When she caught her reflection in the mirror, she stared blankly at the girl who stood before her. Her green eyes were bloodshot, deep in their sockets, bordered by dark circles. She looked terrible, but that was to be expected. She hadn't showered or left her bedroom for three days and the only human contact she'd had occurred twice a day when her mother brought Lydia her meals. She had turned them down each time, unable to summon an appetite.

Lydia made her way across the cluttered floor, careful not to step on anything sharp or trip over the wall of laundry she had constructed in the centre of her bedroom. Once she reached the closet door, she raised her arm, let her fingers edge toward the jacket. She was about to release the thing from the hook it hang on when she hesitated, pale hand hovering in mid-air. She suddenly felt as if it would be erroneous to touch something that had been so close to Allison; her favourite jacket. The jacket she had worn on their group date to the Beacon Hills Ice Rink. Well, it hadn't been a group date, really. It had been Scott and Allison, and their two best friends along for the ride. Stiles had fawned over Lydia all night, as he always did. He had watched her as she danced across the white ice like a figure-skater, she'd felt his pulse quicken as she grabbed his wrist to pull him along, and he'd held her when she'd collapsed onto the hard glass of the rink.

What Lydia wouldn't give to have Stiles here right now. She hadn't spoken to him since he'd dropped her home the night it all ended, the night she'd lost another person she'd cared for…

Aiden.

Lydia let her arm fall to her side, and burst into tears. She had forgotten momentarily that she had lost him, too. Aiden had been her boyfriend of sorts, and even though she hadn't loved him, she still cared for him deeply. When she closed her eyes she could see him lying on the cold ground, bearing a similar wound to Allison's, surrounded by his new pack; she saw Ethan on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching his twin's jacket, willing him back to life. She saw Derek looking visibly upset, kneeling next to Ethan, one large hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. And Allison's father, Chris Argent, standing above them, a look of pity on his lined face.

She had run straight into Stiles' arms. And he'd held onto her for longer than she could remember. She felt safe with him, crazy as it sounded. They were emotionally tethered to each other in a way that even she, Lydia _freakin_' Martin, couldn't understand. There was no logic to it.

But then, nothing in Beacon Hills ever made sense anyway.

Lydia reached again for the jacket, felt the velvety texture of it on her fingertips. Slowly, she bent her head to meet it. She almost choked when she inhaled Allison's scent. The tears were coming thick and fast now, cascading down her cheeks and onto the jacket. Allison's perfume. Lydia had bought it as an early Christmas present, and she'd loved it, promising to wear it every day. She wouldn't have use for it anymore, Lydia realised. She was gone. And Lydia had to get ready.

…

One hour later, Lydia stood again before her mirror. Her eyes were still bloodshot, deep in her sockets, but concealer covered the dark circles well enough. She had curled her long red hair, and applied her signature 'Crimson Kiss' lipstick. She wore a short black dress, and black Louboutin heels graced her feet. She grabbed her iPhone, stuffed it in her purse, and was halfway to the door when she remembered the jacket. Slowly, she shrugged the thing onto her shoulders. It was time, she thought to herself. Time to say goodbye.


	2. Stiles

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed and favourited my story. I know I haven't posted for four months, which is embarrassing, but I clumsily spilled water on my laptop and had to save up for another one. However, I am back and cannot wait to write my version of 'Teen Wolf' season 4, so please review! More reviews = more motivation! Thanks guys! ~Catherine

**2: Stiles. **

When Stiles pulled up outside the church in his jeep, he was already running late. Behind him, the Sheriff parked up in his squad car. Stiles had offered his father a ride, (he didn't like the idea of riding to a funeral in a car with flashing neon lights), but the Sheriff had declined, explaining that although he _was_ attending to mourn Allison and pay his respects to Chris Argent, he was still the Sheriff and that meant he was on official business. Stiles knew why. His father had been told the truth about Allison's death as soon as it had happened, but unfortunately the Sheriff couldn't just waltz into Beacon Hills P.D. insisting that his son's friend had been murdered by a Japanese demon. So the F.B.I's investigation into who had mugged and murdered Allison Argent continued in earnest, and his father continued to lie.

Stiles dashed up the steps of the church, taking them two at a time. He was about to enter when the Sheriff called him back.

'Stiles.'

He turned reluctantly to face his father, unable to meet his eyes.

'Yeah, Dad?'

The Sheriff watched Stiles' face carefully as he said, 'It wasn't your fault. You know that. Right?'

Stiles' vision blurred suddenly. He blinked back tears, fighting the moisture threatening to spill from his eyes at any moment.

'Yeah, Dad, I know. It wasn't my fault.' _It wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault, _he repeated internally. _It wasn't my fault._ But no matter how many times he said it, or thought it, he just couldn't believe his own lie.

His father appraised him cautiously. Stiles could see the worry in his eyes, the crippling fear that his only son was still a ticking time-bomb which could detonate at any moment, destroying everything in its wake. Stiles hated it. He hated what had happened to _him_, to Allison, and in turn to Scott and Lydia. He even resented what had happened to Aiden, and they hadn't exactly been best buds.

'Okay, buddy,' his dad said, clapping him on the shoulder as they both made their way into the church. Before they could enter, however, a long shiny black hearse pulled up directly in front of the ornate oak double doors. Inside was a perfect white coffin, gilded in silver. _Argent. Silver. _Stiles remembered how Scott had arrived home one evening in a panic, fretting about how his girlfriend's father was out to 'murder his werewolf ass.' Stiles had reassured him that everything would be okay, he hadn't hurt anyone, so big bad Chris Argent had no reason to go after him (other than the fact that Scott was sleeping with his daughter). _You killed her, _the voice said, the one in his mind. Only, like before, it wasn't the Nogitsune talking; it was his guilty conscience. _You're the reason she's dead, Stiles, _the voice insisted. _Do you really think Scott has forgiven you? Or that he ever will? _

Stiles looked down at his hands; he had been digging the nails of his right hand into his left palm, so hard that tiny pricks of blood joined the patterns of lines his mother used to read for her enjoyment when he was young. Little Stiles had never really believed in the art of palm-reading, but now…he supposed, anything was possible.

Sitting in the front of the hearse with the driver was Chris Argent. Stiles was too far away to read his expression, but he didn't want to look into the eyes of the man whose daughter had died on his account. So he turned away and let his father pay his respects on behalf of both of them. He entered the church and walked along the packed aisles until he found Scott in the second row to the front. Lydia sat to his right. Stiles sat down on Scott's left.

'How are you feeling, man?' he asked his best friend, before realising how stupid a question that was. _How are you feeling? _The voice mocked him. _You really are as dumb as you look. _Stiles pinched his arm. Lydia gave him a look that suggested he looked as if he was still in the process of losing his mind.

_Great. _

'Where's Kira?' Stiles looked around the crowded room of mourners.

'A few rows back.' Scott replied monotonously.

There was a deafening silence then, one unlike any of the three friends had ever experienced. Because in a perfect world, _three _would be _four_. It didn't matter where Kira, or Isaac or Malia were, because they hadn't known Allison. Stiles, Scott and Lydia had known her, and _loved _her in different ways. They needed each other.

An organ began to play, the sound coming from the back of the church, reverberating off the beige stone walls which held holy pictures of the saints. Given the recent events which had occurred in Beacon Hills, Stiles' faith hadn't been very strong lately, or ever, really. As Allison's coffin was brought forth, Scott tensed suddenly, his whole body gone rigid.

Lydia took his hand.

Stiles put his arm around Scott's shoulders.

They never let go.


End file.
